Always a baby. Well almost always a baby. There seems to be some maternal instinct to preserve the baby as a baby. They even talk about it. Come on guys, you know what I am saying "oh isn't he so cute, I want him to stay just the way he is!"
Meanwhile our season tickets to the rugby are begging for some junior companion to cheer along beside you, your old fishing rod is crying out for little hands to hold it and that chemistry set you've always wanted (for him of course) sits on the shelf of the toy store and sings its siren song to you whenever you pass by.
But I digress.
It starts with THAT photo - the one that captures the essence of baby and just an album cannot be enough. Somehow word filters through. Personally I think there is some kind of underworld connection with passwords, codes of silence and secret rituals involving 12 by 12 inch sheets if paper.
A single sheet at first, you nod and smile, grateful she has a hobby you can understand better than lactation issues and irritable baby bowels. Then there are two sheets, three, more - an album follows - all very natural, you understand the need for order.
Even ones made of bone. Bone? what happened to the iron age?
Punches, lots and lots of punches and all kinds of shapes.
A box or two to keep stuff in, some folders for paper, a cupboard for storage and all of a sudden your house is on the market and the plans for the new home include words the builders had never envisaged "Scrapbooking Studio".